Hello! I'm back baby B)

And I just wanna say that in any case this site blows up from existence, I'm also updating on AO3 under the username Snowmamelting :)

That being said, BOOM! IT DONE. I'M DONE. Why do I keep chapters until they torturme me? only god knows lmao.

cw: Remember those little scars from chapter 3? The first scene kinda says how they got there. Nothing explicit, but eh, just in case.

Could February have started worse?

The question, at this point, answered itself. Under the freezing water, eyes closed and pressing against her knees, tangled fingers pulling at the hair from the roots, a scratchy throat, and the taste of gastric acid not quite off the tongue.

It wasn't like someone cared. It wasn't like Elsa cared. How much could the crumbling reality matter to her? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

The temperature of the water should be enough for the ice to sink into her chest and ruin her, for the ice to protect more than just her skin. She hadn't been far enough away to stop feeling, and that was what Elsa needed at this moment. Not to feel.

Maybe that was what hurt the most. Naivety to the point of believing in the illusion that, a month and a half later, there would be some kind of change.

She wanted to scream. At what? At who? Elsa had no idea.

Instead, she untangled a hand from her hair as best as she could, felt about the wall behind her until she found the hot water tap. It was in the change of temperature that Elsa tried, after a few deep breaths, to get up so she could make her body work the bare minimum.

Boiling water left red marks easily, too. It was a good way to cool down. Discharge. To get rid of her frustrations and leave the marks Elsa chose to have. How, when, where. Why. What pain to feel. A small moment in time to make her own choices.

She didn't notice those fine lines, almost on the side of her hip bone, until they stood out from the corner of her eye, in the mirror. Once her body smelled like oatmeal and honey soap and her hair like sea breeze. Elsa didn't care too much about them. She wasn't going to look at them more than necessary or she'd fall into the spiral of looking for each one of her flaws. She needed distractions, not reasons.

The ache in her muscles didn't leave her at any time. Or the one in her joints when she moved.

Three layers of clothing.

Now it sounded so strange. A distant thought. Something stupid.

Now the only thing left was Elsa's exhausted body floating without a clear direction inside her head. Rage and hatred went away with the burn of peroxide, replaced with a pressure on the chest that threatened to spill from her eyes. She forced herself to concentrate in the action of brushing her teeth, ignoring the trembling of her hands when she opened the Listerine. Preferring to set her attention on her nightly skincare routine and how warm her fingertips felt massaging into her skin, even with the distance.

Elsa always paid attention to personal care, beyond the importance of a neat appearance. She did it for herself, because she liked to use body creams, tinted lip balms and live with perfectly curled eyelashes. She liked to look good, to feel that she looked good.

It was one of those things that brought her down to Earth. Forcing herself to concentrate enough on superfluous routines to feel a bit more normal. That she had control over her body still.

The problem was that this illusion lasted two or three hours at most. And she couldn't really spend the night locked up in the bathroom without raising suspicions. She'd done it before. It didn't go well.

So Elsa opened the door, slowly, hoping not to find the inevitable. As if she could travel back in time and open the door to an earlier hour, or to another year, or to another time distant enough to search for a way to escape from all of these tragedies. But when she turned towards her room, her side of the first floor, there was nothing but everyday normality. Everything she was away from for a month and a half, and to what she now fully returned, because people don't change in such a short time and she had every single proof of that.

The disappointment was worse. Even though she didn't know to whom it was directed.

Her father spoke like nothing, mentioned something about clean sheets and comfort for a good night's sleep. Maybe it was her lack of reaction what gave her away. The fact that she stood still, not being able to say anything as she felt her eyes starting to sting again, along with the cold playing with her need to hug her elbows. A shield as useful as it appeared. Fragility.

Elsa listened to the words, the usual question if she was okay, if something happened, and she didn't know whether to twist her skin hard or scream, burn her lungs at the cynicism of such question. She hated that, hated getting questions from the person who had all the answers. It was one of the most horrible things he could do to her, because an attempt at honesty was a risk Elsa couldn't afford to take.

Then, all that was left was to blink the tears as a chill ran through her bones.

The worst signal she could give. Of course there would be an attempt of comfort involved. What else could he do? Walk past her and leave her crying in the middle of the hall?

If only.

Not even Elsa would do it to herself. Not without a good reason.

No, no, no. Warmth, comfort. The one that surrounds with kind arms and disguises itself as good intentions. Of help, of worry, and understanding. Of gentle strokes in the hair and empty apologies that always managed to sound real, somehow. Elsa knew they weren't. That they no longer existed the way she was led to believe. Otherwise she wouldn't have to dress in layers, nor have to take precautions to hear all the signals, nor would the cold be there to protect her.

It was all a lie. Elsa knew, she knew it well. She lived and repeated them every day.

That's why she didn't uncross her arms and returned the hug. Nor did she do anything to get away, or to show what was really going through her mind. It was useless.

And perhaps, deep down, a little bit comforting, too.

Wasn't this a father's real job, after all?

On Sunday, after that argument (if it deserved to be called that), Elsa took as long as she needed to compose herself and look like nothing actually happened. Everything was just peachy. In a parallel reality, of course. But as long as no one tried to verify it, it was enough for her.

She ended up playing with her cousins in the living room, highlighting the colored tattoos that lightened with hand washing. Meanwhile, more songs played in the background from a princess who fought evil with the magic of friendship and rainbow lasers. And honestly, that was the best part of the day. Doing what Elsa wanted to do. Getting distracted with two seven-year-old girls confident enough to try to make her lose in card games. That the only thing they judged her for was a flower that came out a bit crooked.

Needless to say, with her sister they didn't speak more than necessary for the rest of the day. Or rather, Annadidn't speak to her more than necessary for the rest of the day.

The moment Kai tried to ask her if everything was okay, while they were finishing preparing dinner, Elsa just shrugged. Her uncle assured her he'd be there if she needed to talk, as always. Elsa thanked him, as she was used to, and immediately changed the subject regarding what they were doing.

As expected, Elsa spent way too much time thinking about these things, trying to understand the why's. Staring at the stars on the ceiling that were supposed to bring better things and writhing inside her head.

Elsa wasn't the favorite. Never was. She had all the proof and maybe the memory of telling so to her parents in the worst of tones. Anna knew how much Elsa hated that she, out of everyone, told her that. To her sister, responsibility was the greatest indication of trust and affection, when it was a simple matter of age. Of having to take care of more things and of Anna. At the same time.

Elsa could understand she was angry because to each their own with their ways of grieving. But then she had the right not to answer, too. She lived with them all her life, she knew what they were like. Anna knew a quarter of the story, (which was good, as it was the purpose of making an effort) so her opinion didn't count all that much.

Needless to say that Elsa ended up falling asleep at about half-past two in the morning, after wasting time on social media and playing Sudoku to distract herself enough and sleep.

Maybe Monday was different. The week changed and things sorted themselves out, somehow.

Maybe it was pure speculation.

By nine-thirty in the morning, the house was empty except for the two of them, and that uncomfortable tension where Elsa couldn't help but be aware of every movement, every little noise around her. She turned on the radio in an attempt to relieve it a bit, the one they played every morning as it played a decent potpourri of songs, but it felt like a bad deed. As if she was doing something wrong by not taking necessary precautions. As if Elsa had to be on alert in anticipation of what was about to come.

Clearly, an automatic reaction. Elsa would be lying if she said she wasn't used to navigating tensions, or paying attention to the slightest things out of place. But not because of something so minimal. Not because of something like this. Much less with Anna. It turned the air cold around her and twisted her stomach. Nausea increased to the point her whole breakfast was half a cup of coffee.

Usually, when Elsa had this pile of emotions she didn't know what to do with (or simply felt awful), she'd set the A/C to a nice temperature; hide underneath the covers, and binge-watch a series or YouTube videos. Or she would lock herself up in the studio and try to draw whatever came to mind with different techniques, or to try to read a book. Something.

Instead, Elsa spent the rest of the morning on the sofa by the window, with a comfort pillow and her phone. The house didn't have that many options, just two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen, where Anna was now. It was too hot to go out to the patio, and the room next to the little storage room, outside (in those things only old houses had), was a studio for her aunt and uncle.

This wasn't her place. How many things of her own did she have here? A medium-sized duffle bag and a backpack, extra clothes, pajamas, portable charger, towels, and her personal care items. The basics for every time she had to leave the house for a few days, plus one or two extra things. Nothing much. Everything else was different, from the house structure to the furniture style, and the place ended up feeling a lot smaller than it actually was.

Maybe Elsa wantedto go back to those spaces. Her personal spaces. Spend hours painting in the studio, or lie down in the hammock in the patio with a book, or just draw doodles in her notebook.

But now she was in the living room, surrounded by foreign angles and walls, in a neighborhood where she still didn't know her way around. What was the point?Elsa wasn'tcoming back.

Or was she?

Did she really want to?

Could she?

No, no, she couldn't.

Or, well, in theory, she could. Her keys were at hand's reach, her transport card had money, and a quick search in Moovit would tell her what bus she should take. Elsa could go back to what she knew and the first thing she thought about when she said her home. The personal spaces she made for herself over the years. This time nokeeping guards up, no high alert. Just the deathly silence of ghosts wandering around.

No one could tell her she couldn't, especially if they didn't know. It wasn't a crime scene (at that, a voice wanted to say that it was, somehow, but Elsa chased the thought out as soon as it came).

Still, she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't scared. The last time Elsa was there was the day before the funeral, and the remaining sensations had to be removed with boiling water and soap.

That time Elsa said she hated it, that she wasn't coming back. That she didn't need anything else from that place, as much as it was a lie.

No, no, no. She couldn't go. It was a self-imposed rule. Or an implicit one. It would have been one for her parents, saying no with that expression that said they wouldn't hear another word. And if she broke it, then whatever the expression was, it'll be worse than plain and simple anger.

What was left, then? There had to be something else. This couldn't be the only thing left. It wasn't the only thing left. They couldn't have taken everything Elsa had, all her life. There had to be more things of her own.

For some reason, Elsa stared at her phone screen way longer than necessary, trying to figure out which app might give her an idea of something. Pinterest as always was the first option, as she had a board with pictures and whatever her feed showed that she could use for drawing. Sometimes she'd start with a specific shape and repeat it, like patterns, or traced silhouettes or things like that.

For whatever reason, lettering videos appeared in her feed, and Elsa decided it was a good idea. She had a fountain pen, and maybe some colored pens. Had she brought her pencil case with all her things?

She got up, knee joints protesting, determined to do the things she always did. No matter if she wanted to be somewhere else and hated herself for it. Moving on, not living in the past and all that, right?

Her backpack was in Anna's room, the one she brought with an extra set of clothes last Wednesday because she forgot her duffle bag. Elsa found her blue pencil case with the polar bear pattern, where she stored her most used art supplies like pens and some colored pencils. And the notebook she used for doodles and stuff, as the sheets had a nice weight for practice sketches.

And the light blue color notebook. Not the other one, the handmade she bought in Ushuaia to make serious drawings. But the one she used for watercolors.

How in hell did it get there? She kept her notebooks in a pile by her desk, but Elsa was sure she put this one in another place, or that it was in the study, or just somewhere where it wasn't at hand's reach. Didn't she put it in the drawer? On Friday. Elsa didn't remember much of what happened on Friday.

Not like she had to hide it, anyway, right? It was just a stupid notebook with paper of a better weight to practice another painting technique. It was just watercolor practices.

Morbid curiosity made her open it up anyways. Pass through color wheels, shade tests, simple shaped drawings, and easy landscapes. Each one had its errors, as Elsa was still learning and didn't get curious to try it seriously until she was gifted a set on Christmas. Some had too much water, some not enough, some had the colors mixed with each other, but there was a general line of progress. Elsa had little tolerance to make the same mistakes twice.

Until she reached the last drawing, where everything went overboard.

It was supposed to be a simple sketch, based on a picture she took of one of the lakes at National Park back in the south. The view from the shore and the distant mountains reflected on the water, with clouds taking up most of the sky and giving a cold, slight lilac hue to the place. The hardest part was adding more specific details that required patience for the drying time between layers.

But the clouds ended up in an oversaturated gray patch, with edges marked by excess water, melting into the mountains and blurring its definition. The strokes without a pulse. Wavy. Sloppy.

The last one wasn't a drawing. It was a disaster. It was horrible, it was dead, it was crap.

It was proof.

It was the last three days of that week. Of that last damned Wednesday. Of Thursday, when she asked her mom how she could fix it, if there even was a solution. Of everything that followed, all those things Elsa never thought she would be able to affirm out loud.

Elsa stayed there, sitting on the floor with a notebook in her hands and the only proof. The only thing left from all the things she lost. Or maybe it was the proof that she had lost them, effectively, and it wasn't necessarily her fault.

No, no, no.

Elsa tried to focus on something else. To get rid of that stupid sensation of her stomach tying itself into cold knots, of frosted her lungs, of the humid cold that set at the back of her neck. The buzzers ringing outside from the heat, the car that just passed by the street, the sound of wooden cabinets closing and pop music coming from the kitchen.

Don't feel.

She needed control, control, control. To take a deep breath and keep her hands from shaking while the air around her turned cold and goosebumps danced over her skin.

Elsa couldn't keep paying attention to things like this. The things that should be buried in her memory, that should merge with the voids and be part of the fear of falling into them. Things that no longer had their entity or place, nor did she have to associate them with a poorly painted drawing. All was already said, done, and sealed. How could this be proof if she had no basis for it whatsoever?

She wasn't going to ruin her day with things like this. With anything like it.

There are worse things.

Elsa put everything back in the backpack, plans canceled, and got up abruptly to lock herself in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. Once. Twice. Three times. At the fourth she left her hands there, breathing deeply, slowly. One, two, five times. The necessary ones until there was only a bit of nausea left in her stomach and a bearable cold on her skin.

She was definitely not going home now, to bealone with all that not-proof fluttering around.

But Elsa couldn't let it ruin her life now. If these things weren't supposed to happen anymore, then she had to force herself to move get back all those other things she had left. Feel that her life was still hers and not everything had changed.

Get back some sense of normality. Forget about the tragedies and keep the good things only. Distractions. More distractions than the ones she used when she was alone and didn't want to interact with the world. The kind that made her feel like a normal person.

So, she went back to the living room to get her phone, forgetting about any attempts at lettering that would surely end up with a broken pen tip, and opening the social interaction apps. Like WhatsApp, with its red notification bubble at three-digit numbers already. From chat groups, unknown numbers (probably relatives that didn't even know her), and conversations she tried to get away from all week. And that she wasn't going to make the effort to answer now.

She ended up checking one chat group in particular with a cheesy name and star emojis, the one with friends from both school and the handball team. Between random conversations, the last messages were from Cati, announcing she was back from her vacation with a bunch of pictures of her dog, and a video with him so happy jumping around he almost knocks off an entire shelf.

And since it was the perfect opportunity, Elsa sent with a bunch of heart stickers a "when can I see him?", as if it hadn't been two months since the last time she saw one of her best friends. Even if she was a little bit scared of what might happen, knowing Cati (and herself).

Not even five minutes passed that an "idk, tomorrow?" popped up on her screen, in between comments about Bobby and those about Elsa coming back from the dead from Emma.

Tomorrow?

Elsa took a quick glance to the kitchen, to her right. Her sister was still in her own bubble, humming a song along with the radio while doing whatever it was she'd been doing since morning.

No, no, no. She had to. Distractions, right? Distractions.

Elsa typed a simple "tomorrow", feeling herself smile for the first time in the day. Tomorrow was fine.

Hope you liked this one, and it somehow was a bit lighter than my usual stupid angst lololol. The next one we're back to our usual schedule because I don't know how to plan feelings, whoops :^).